I am translating the world into mockingbird, into blue jay,
into cat-bombing avian obbligato, because I want
more noise, more bells, more senseless tintinnabulation,
more crow, thunder, squawk, more bird song,
more Beethoven, more philharmonic mash notes to the gods.
I am translating the world into onyx, into Abyssinian,
into pale blue Visigoth vernacular, because the bloody earth
is not one color, one stripe, one smooth mulatto
café con leche cream-colored dream, no rumba, no cha-cha,
no cheek-to-cheek tango through the Argentine
midnight stream, but a hodgepodge of rival factions
fighting over the borders of nothing. I am translating
the world into blue, azure, cerulean, because there is a sky
beneath us as there is a sea above. O the fish soar
like dragonflies through empyrean clouds; the mockingbird
swims through the ocean like a man-of-war. I am
translating the heavens into Gutenberg, into Bodoni,
into offset digital karmic Palatino, every “T” a crucifix
on the shrine of my lexicographic longing. I am reading
the archaic language of birches, frangipani pidgin of monsoon,
Bali palm dialect of endless summer. I am translating the sky
into bulls, swans, gold dust, for a god is filled with such power
that mortal husbands quiver in the shadow of his furious lust,
the bliss-driven engine of his thrumming mythopoesis.
I am calling the world to take off its veils of fog and soot,
shed its overcoat of factories, highways, skyscrapers,
lay down its rocks, roots, rivers, and lie naked in my naked arms,
for I am translating the earth and all its dominions
into desire, into flayed skin screaming abandon, all tongue,
mouth, flesh-drunk erotic demonology, fiery seraphim
mating with mortals, wings incinerated in the white heat
of love, Apollo turning Daphne into marble, into tree roots,
into chlorophyll, scent of cut grass, a baby's mouth sweet
with milk, because this is my Cultural Revolution,
my Mao Tse Tung, my Chou En-Lai, my attempt to go
without sin, to have it my way no matter what, for I am
the way, the truth, the light, third empress of the seventh dynasty,
Madame Chiang, Madame Nhu, Madame X, Madame
Three Quarters of the Left Brain, poster girl of a million GIs,
Betty Grable to you, buster, Jane Russell, all gams, breasts,
blond smiles, brunette tribulation, Betty and Veronica,
the last stop before Kiss-and-Tell, Texas, Fourth
Shepherdess of confabulation, Calliope's stepdaughter, Erato's
girl, it's all Greek to me, for I am translating the world
as if it were a bomb, a thief, a book. Chapter One: the noun
of my mother's womb, verb of birth, adjectives of blood,
screams, fluorescence. Chapter Two: explosions of words
growing into sentences, arms, legs, tentacles. Chapter Three:
voyages to unheard-of territories—here be monsters, two-mile
waterfalls, portals to the underworld. Chapter Four: returns,
for in all of us there's an Odysseus ready to misunderstand the sky
and its garbled signs, rumble-thunder theater of missed cues,
because this is our adventure, our calling, our do-or-die
mission, translating the world into the body's bright lie.